Massimo

It turns out that even the most soul-enrapturing sex isn't magic.

She falls asleep, a spellbinding tangle of satin hair, brown skin, and long legs twisted in the sheets. I lie awake until the restless itch takes over and I need to move, but there's nowhere to go.

That's how I find myself down in the empty hotel lobby, turning my phone over in my hands. Tommaso's contact glares up at me.

I could pretend not to know the reason. Not once in my life have I encountered a problem and thought, I should call Tommaso.

Especially a problem like this. My least favorite kind of problem, in fact: one I can identify but can't, for the life of me, begin to fix.

It's me. Vivienne is the one who found and subsequently busted me out of the asylum. All while more or less running my organization and wrangling my brother into submission. She's the one who found it in her to care, to want me—even after my ungratefulness for all she'd done. Then she let me have her. Despite all the reasons not to.

I am the one who, once the pleasurable fog faded, lay there and did everything I could to resist the urge to get up and shower again. And then two more times after that. Counted my heartbeats, matched my breaths to hers, but nothing worked. It was like everything I'd felt with her hadn't happened and suddenly, the walls and carpet of this hotel began to fade into another. Decadence, sin, drifting down wide hallways to meet strangers in strange rooms.

For someone so unused to being able to identify feelings, this one hits hard and all at once. I feel dirty, like I've adulterated her by coming inside her like that. And I feel blindsided, because what we did could be chalked up to a lot more than mere feeling, but the heavenly aftertaste washed away as soon as she fell asleep and it was just me and the hotel room.

People don't fix other people. Yet another reason why love is pointless even to those who can feel it. Can anyone really separate affection for a person from their weak desire for that person to fix them? What a pathetic thing to want. We've all been burned and we end up burning each other when we mistake obsession for love.

That's why Tommaso comes to mind. He is fluent in obsession. He doesn't love, he possesses; and he doesn't hate, he loathes. Sex, to him, is a picture of that dichotomy. He can attach the physical act to any emotion, situation, or person. That was hard for me to stomach as we both grew up—me into someone who hated their body and what it did, him into someone who loved to use his.

I cannot help but wonder if he would have the right words, and if I'd be able to believe them.

The ringing of my phone jolts me out of my thoughts, and I realize what I've done.

"Holy shit. Simo?" 

He sounds perfectly awake, even though it's nearing dawn.

"Hello? Is everything okay? I'll go get San—"

"Don't get him, I wanted to talk to you."

He gusts out a disbelieving breath. "Shit, you fucker. It's been weeks! What happened? I thought..." he laughs, a rough sound, "I thought you'd kind of decided to come back, you know, after the wedding."

I rub a hand over my face, so tired my vision is blurring. I'm not even sure what I had decided by the wedding. I was on the verge of total collapse.

"I guess we need to talk. About Antonio and some other things."

Some other things being the most innocuous way of referring to it all.

I hear his breathing pick up. "And—and about Nico too, right?"

There it is.

I see that image of him with the knife in his gut, pale face and chapped lips, and lose my breath for a moment. My words come out a little strangled. "We'll talk when I get there. I called for something else."

For once in his life, Tommaso exercises patience and remains silent as I muster up the ability to speak. But now that I'm thinking about Nico, I have no everloving clue how to bring up sex. This is a trainwreck. This is why I don't talk to my brothers. 

I am twenty-nine years old trying to ask my brother for advice about sex.

"When did you lose your virginity?"

What the hell?

The silence between us is deafening. I crush my hand into a fist, picturing all the ways I could destroy my phone right now. Preferably by bashing myself repeatedly in the head so I'm no longer suffering through this moment. Why did I think he'd even be able to remember? I doubt there's one single or married woman in this city whose bed he hasn't contaminated.

"Hey man... are you okay? Are we doing this whole parenting thing now? Look, I never got anyone pregnant, I was always safe... well, that's a lie, but do you really care?"

I pinch the bridge of my nose, physically unable to explain myself. It's like someone poured cement down my throat. "Just forget about it."

"Can't," Tommaso sighs. "The whole thing was pretty unforgettable. It was a Tuesday morning. There was a slight nip in the air, but not enough to need a jacket. You and Santo went out, I put Nico down for his nap. Met a street worker at a pizza parlor about a block away. We did it in the bathroom and I bought her a slice of pizza afterwards. Then she stole my wallet. It was awesome."

Ice coats my skin as I think about how old he would have been. And I had no idea.

"Hello? You still there?" I hear the telltale flick of his lighter.

Jesus. When did Tommaso even start smoking? I can't remember a time he wasn't.

"Tommaso, that sounds like two sex crimes and a robbery."

"She died a few years later in a shooting. I went to her funeral."

This was pointless.

"Not because I thought it was a big deal to lose my virginity," he continues after an audible pull from his cigarette. "But I felt, I don't know, like I wanted it to be. Thought it would be cool if it was this big event. But it was still just thirty seconds against a rusty sink with a bitch twenty years older than me. You know?"

"Why did you want it to mean something?"

"I was young and still thought it was possible. I'm pretty sure that's life, actually," Tommaso muses. "Just trying to make shit mean something."

"And you don't think it does."

He chuckles darkly. "But it's fun trying."

We sit in silence for a few moments as I think about the idea of choice. Tommaso found no meaning in the pizza parlor bathroom, so he's choosing to search for it elsewhere. He doesn't care that moment carries a weight that can't be shouldered off, or that there's no remedial meaning to be found elsewhere.

It's fun trying.

It all stretches before me—finally having Vivienne, the kind of person who makes you think of things like soul connections and magic. Trying to let sex with her paint over the hundreds of times it hurt.

I don't think the trying will be the same for me. The messed up stuff went on for too long. But Vivienne has already changed me into someone who looks for the magic, and that's a big enough deal. Maybe if I try with her for longer than they hurt me... could that cover the pain?

Realistically, there's no harm in trying. I've already become a blustering fool. When I'm not drowning in disgust so potent I could scratch my own skin off, I don't actually hate it.

And that's when I realize... the crawling feeling is going away. I don't feel numb with the urge to scrub the deviance out of my bones. I'm hesitant to attribute that to Tommaso but perhaps talking about it in any capacity is helpful.

"Now why'd you really call? We both know it wasn't for whatever that was."

I'll let him believe that.

"Has she said anything to you?"

"No," he scoffs, and I'm glad I don't need to say her name. "Everything she says is more like a blubbering cry. And I'm going just as crazy as her wondering what the fuck is going on. You two need to hurry up and get here."

After we exchange goodbyes, Tommaso clears his throat abruptly before I can hang up. "Hey, I'm sorry, you know? For the trial, for every time before that you had to bail me out. For the fact I haven't been sober since I was, like, ten. For... other things, probably."

I hear the sheepish sincerity in his voice, the way he means it. But I doubt it's that simple.

"But you won't stop any of it, right?"

"Can't," he says quietly. "This is my trying. I don't have anything else."

After we hang up, I spend the next several minutes wondering how much blame I can shoulder for my brother turning into someone who can only find meaning in chaos and addiction. Wondering when I went from changing his diapers and protecting him from our parents, to not noticing he was smoking and having sex in restaurant bathrooms. Wondering if Santo knew, or if he was too busy with me to notice.

My phone starts ringing again.

"Frank Monroe."

"Alive and well," she drawls. "I would apologize for the drama, but you're putting me through enough of your own. You've been impossible to reach and we have a trial coming up. I have an update on the case."

Great to know she considers sustaining multiple shots to the chest drama.

"Listening."

"Lucas Harvey—remember him? The guy whose head your brother smashed into a table? He had a little habit of drugging girls and filming them in his bed later on."

"Straight to the point."

"You and I both know there's no other way," she chuckles. "The girl who filmed the murder? Harvey had her on tape. She tells me Harvey was always jealous of the attention your brother got. Long story short, he blackmailed her to try and ruin Tommaso's life. All of this because your brother is apparently a good lay, and knows how to party."

Two things I had just established were my fault in some capacity. How utterly convenient.

"One more thing," Frank continues. "Our girl filmed the whole night and posted it on her socials. My private investigator found video evidence that Tommaso was roofied that night. This changes everything, Massimo."

After our call, I regret ever commandeering my phone back into my control. I had intended on clearing my head but instead my problems have multiplied. Defeated, I decide to go back to Vivienne, but now a new thought has started weighing on me.

If I've turned Tommaso into this—addicted to substances and situations that put him on trial for murder—who will Vivienne become by the time I'm done with her? I'd just decided to try, really let myself try, with her. The idea of her turning into my brother sours my stomach enough that, once back in the room, I need to splash cool water on my face. This is one of those moments I wish I could shut off my brain.

When I slide into bed, she turns towards me, still fully asleep. Her hair is everywhere, spread out on the pillow like a giant inkblot. The woman has so much of it, it's strewn over her face too. Carefully, I comb it away. Tracing lightly over the angle of her jaw and the curve of her nose. Just like that, everything in my head quiets.

At my faint touch, she wrinkles her nose and swats at my hand. Turning to her other side, she moves away from me and settles with a sigh. She's still naked and the sheets fall away. The tuck of her waist is obscene, the supple curve of her ass practically begging for my touch.

Annoyed, I give into the urge and pull her into me. The curve of her hips fit perfectly in my lap, but her hair is a damn choking hazard. I flick it out of the way, not caring anymore if I wake her up. She's a brat even when she's asleep.

But she surprises me by turning and nuzzling her face into my chest. Wrenching a thigh between mine and hooking one arm over my waist. Her breaths even out and I feel my body melt into the mattress, exhaustion finally taking hold.

I've already put her through every kind of torture imaginable. From assaulting her in the dead of night to putting human body parts in her bed. I dragged her into this blood-soaked world of murder and corruption. Subjected her to the sickness in my mind, told her I don't love her, and left her for nearly a month. At which point I then proceeded to come back into her life, get her into a hostage situation, and check myself into a mental institution.

I've done it all, and she hasn't let one ounce of it change her. She's somehow even more Vivienne. In fact, hold that up against everything she's been doing for me, and it's no question of who's better at being strong where the other person is weak.

The sun begins to bleed over the horizon. Neither of us pulled the curtains closed, so dawn breaks over her perfect skin, turning it molten. And I acknowledge that maybe I do have a small desire to let her fix me. For magic to be real. For trying to be enough.

Vivienne

It turns out there is one thing that can distract Massimo from everything, and that is sex.

Namely, two days of it. Sex, a whole lot of room service, and sleep.

That first morning, he wakes me with kisses that ache of a thousand secrets. Each one is different. I missed you, says his first kiss, gentle and lingering on my bottom lip. You are perfection, says the next one, a teasing swipe of his tongue at the seam of my lips. I want you, says the last one, hungry and grasping as he licks into my mouth. So fucking bad, says the way his fingers tangle into my hair.

There's roughness in the way his hand fists and pulls, wrenching a low sound from my throat, coiling hot in my belly. Yes. I like this.

"I want to do something. Will you let me?" I'm nodding even before he's finished. "I've always wanted to have you this way." He brushes a tender kiss over my temple, holding it there for a prolonged moment. "This is me trying, dolcezza."

I'm about to ask him what he means, but then he's rolling his hips down into mine. I've never wanted someone so much, never thought I'd be able to desire someone the way you read about in books. The first time was vulnerable, hot, and desperate. The long awaited snapping of a rubber band pulled past its tautness. This time starts out slower, so it has time to hurt with how much I want him. Then hurt bleeds into blinding pleasure as he finally fills me, a trembling fist wrapped around my throat, still tangled in my hair and making it so I can hardly breathe.

Everywhere he touches, it feels unreasonably good. His other hand slips up my stomach, following the curve of my ribs, thumb rubbing in a firm sweep over my breasts. He circles his hips and I scratch my nails down his neck, making his rhythm stutter.

"You feel better than the first time." His head dips, soft hair tickling the side of my face. "Didn't think that was possible."

It's soul rattling, the feeling of him inside me. My vision softens until everything looks like lava—feels like it too. He's everywhere, pinching roughly at my nipple, wrapped around my throat, nipping at the corner of my jaw.

Then his touch is gone, all of it, just like that.

I'm lost but only for a second, before he flips me to my stomach. He pushes me into the mattress and slides back into me, meeting no resistance. Combing my hair away from my face and wrapping it in his fist. It's all I can do to turn so my cheek is mashed into the pillow, gasping at the suddenness of it all. This new angle quite literally picks up my perception of reality and swirls it around into a cyclone of Massimo. All I feel, hear, see, taste, and think is how fucking deep I can feel him.

A sharp sting on my ass has me crying out and lifting my hips, the cool air immediately making the spot prickle. He gently kneads the skin, soothing it, before slapping me again. It hurts more than I thought it would, and I've never been this turned on. I can feel the slickness on the inside of my thighs. 

Once my ass has gone numb, his long torso presses me back down into the mattress. Hands fisted on either side of my head as he hovers over me, pounding into me from behind.

"Too rough for you, dolcezza?"

I let out a string of incoherent words and moans.

He pauses, nuzzling my cheek and pressing a small kiss to my earlobe. "Hm?"

"Harder," I manage, "I want it harder."

A soft gust of air tickles the side of my face—a soundless chuckle—and he kisses gently over my shoulders and down my back, so tender and soft that frustration nearly blinds me.

"Massimo. I swear."

He licks the curve of my spine, and I shiver. "Just making sure you know I—"

He cuts himself off, and my patience snaps. 

"I can't fucking stand y—"

He grabs my forearm, pinning it to my lower back and entering me again with a forceful press of his hips, spreading me wider than before. My mouth gapes against the pillowcase as I lose focus of the world again. He reaches under me to find my clit with his fingers, sweat melding us together as he fucks into me hard enough to jostle me forward. The sounds we're making are sinful, me most of all, but I can't keep it quiet.

On a particularly hard thrust, he cups the top of my head to keep it from crashing into the headboard.

This isn't like those other times he talked me through it, used his words to create space and guide us both. This is raw, unrestrained passion. Shameless heat, unbridled desire. Just pure sex.

Just when I think I can't possibly take any more, Massimo lifts my hips. I understand what he's doing but I'm afraid my liquid bones won't cooperate as he slides me onto my knees and I prop myself up on my elbows, trembling, sweating, hardly able to take any more.

"Holy fuck," I gasp, confused how he can make it feel this fucking good. He trails a hand down the arch of my back and the rest of my words come out as gibberish, feeling his cock slipping fully out of me before thrusting back in, until I tighten around him and collapse to scream into the pillow as everything fucking dissolves.

I come hard, but he continues to fuck me like I'm not. Fucking the orgasm out of me, and only once I'm limp and melted into the sheets do I feel him stiffen, hear that soft gasp of my name and the flood of heat as he fills me up.

Holy. Fucking. Shit.

Massimo carries me to the bathroom, which is good seeing as there's no way I could get my legs to cooperate enough to get there myself. After cleaning up, I spend a good few minutes staring at myself in the mirror. I look... incredible. Dewy skin, glossy eyes, lips bitten plump and pink, hair a glorious mess.

"Holy fucking shit," I tell my reflection.

That man can fuck.

I sleep for a little while longer after that, drifting off to Massimo's light tough tracing up and down my spine. I eventually blink awake to the bed dipping, catching him trying to sneak out. He mumbles some bullshit about how he isn't tired and didn't want to wake me, but he looks exhausted. A little jumpy, scratching lightly at his arms.

I drag him back to bed, pulling him on top of me and playing with his hair until his eyelids go heavy. That strange worried light in his face dims as he surrenders to sleep. A few more minutes and he's passed out, breathing softly into my neck.

I get the feeling that after the way he just fucked me, he needed to receive something from me. And so after that, I make sure he sleeps just as long and deep as I do.

And sometimes longer. Next time he wakes, it's to an array of food I got bored and ordered. 

"Once we get past all this, will you and I have to fight for power? Like, now that I took over and everything?"

He kisses me, nipping on my lower lip. "That's not how that works, dolcezza."

I rock on my heels, excited. He continues trying to kiss me, but I'm focused on my new vocation. "Because I already took over, right? I stole the allegiance of all your men. You've been replaced."

Massimo decides to ignore me, assembling a heaping plate of avocado toast, pancakes, eggs, and sausage. I watch him, admiring the smooth pull of his muscles as I trip my way through several more conversation topics, wanting to find something that gets on his nerves. Eventually I fall silent, watching him pick around the grapes in the fruit salad. He knows I hate grapes. He's making that plate for me.

I join him on the bed, reclining against the headboard. "I never knew sex could feel that good."

"It never did before?" He tilts his head, not looking at me but waiting for my response.

"Fuck no, not with anyone else," I sigh, curling up contentedly.

He likes that answer, enough that he shoves the plate into my lap before we can get distracted.

Every time we fuck is different. Ravenous, desperate, fast. Slow, searing, deep. Then tremulous, careful—some deep emotion behind every sweep of his finger, every brush of my lips.

At one point it dawns on me just how much contact we're having, confined to this one bed in such a small room. Massimo is a man who appreciates his alone time; he has to be getting a little tired of the endless routine of fuck, sleep, eat. So I head out, deciding that I'll give the hotel kitchen staff a break from fueling all this fucking.

I'm halfway through the door with a pizza box at least an inch wider than the doorframe by the time Massimo's on me, grabbing the food and tossing it onto the table.

"I could've sent someone to pick that up," he says into my mouth, backing me towards the bed.

"I just thought I'd give you a little space," I say right as I go airborne. After pushing me down to the mattress, he hovers over me with a calculating stare.

I run my hand appreciatively through his hair. It's too long to style now, and this disheveled look is new for him. I bite my lip as I imagine him like, all rumpled and wearing his glasses. Damn. What a—

"Vivienne." He's frowning at me, squishing my cheeks. "Can you not hear me?"

Not while I'm fantasizing about how you'd look wearing your glasses as I suck your dick.

Damn, I wonder if he has more pairs in different styles. Maybe I can convince him to try them all on for me. And let me take pictures, for later—

"All the sex seems to have messed with your cognitive function."

"Funny," I hum, going up to kiss him, but he pushes me back down.

"Did you need space?"

He's frowning, so now I'm frowning. "No. I thought maybe you did."

"That's stupid," he practically scoffs. "Why would you think such a thing?"

Since he's looking at me like I've just suggested he might want to watch me have sex with the room service waiter, I now feel the need to defend myself.

"Well, before you literally begged me to move in, you were a hopeless recluse. I was just giving you an hour of peace. We're always on top of each other in this room." I wiggle my body for emphasis, still pinned beneath him.

"That sounds like the exact opposite of a problem," he pins me harder, stopping me from moving. "Also, I never begged you. Your oven exploded, you were destitute."

"It's cute you think that." I slip from his hold, kissing the corner of his mouth. "You were obsessed with me. Everyone saw it."

He frowns. "Who is everyone?" 

I catch sight of the clock on the wall, and my heart plummets. Planting my palms on his chest, I push until he lets me sit up. It goes against every single one of my instincts, but we need to get ready to leave our little haven. There's no more pushing off the return to reality, not unless I want two fuming Romano brothers kicking down my door.

But a part of me has honestly been waiting for this moment. I want Cora gone, and I want it now.

Unfortunately for Massimo, this means some uncomfortable conversations with his brothers that I know he's been avoiding. The air is heavy as we both get ready. Silent, reluctant to break the delicate peace we found over the last couple days.

Massimo turns to me as we head out. "Where's Nik, by the way?"

"I gave him to an animal shelter. He was becoming too much and with how little time I've spent at home lately, it had to happen."

Massimo drops the key card. His face is pale. "What?"

I smirk. "I knew it. You totally love him."

He blinks at me.

"He's staying with your men at my place," I clarify, because he looks like I've actually ripped the rug out from under him. "I didn't get rid of him."

Massimo wraps his hand around my wrist. My body stills as he pulls me close and presses a kiss to my forehead, holding his lips there as his other hand curls around my hip. It feels a lot like a thank you for everything, regret that we have to leave, and so much more.

"You're magic, Vivienne."

My heart, long gone for this man, gives a happy little twirl.

Whatever happens next, at least we had this.

♛ 

There. All that smut, the cute sappy moments. Am I not the nicest???

- G